Useless
Leia shivered and came to terms with this grim truth. Useless. No matter how many socks she layered, no matter how close she dragged the standard-issue space heater, and no matter how she adjusted her thermal sleeping bag, it was useless. She could not get warm. And, similarly, no matter how many nerfs she counted and no matter how she tried to let herself drift off, she simply could not sleep when she was shivering as she was.
Leia groaned into the silence of her dark quarters. Over the weeks she’d become accustomed to the inescapable cold: she could tolerate seeing her breath puff in front of her in the command center. She could tolerate the biting sting on her face when she stood near to the blast doors. She could even tolerate needing to eat her meals with her gloves on.
What she could not tolerate, it seemed, was shivering on her cot night after night, feet like ice, teeth chattering. Stubbornly, Leia darted one arm out from within her meager cocoon and grabbed her heavy coat off the back of the chair near her head; she laid it over her sleep sack and scrambled to get her hand back inside, heat escaping from within her sealed thermal nest.
Better, she thought. Much better. She burrowed deeper down into her bedding, waiting to warm up.
Drawing her knees up to her chest and tucking her hands under her armpits, Leia scowled to herself. She couldn’t do this again—she couldn’t go through another day exhausted and cold again. She felt as though she’d taken giant steps back: after Yavin she’d been perpetually exhausted and agitated, unable to sleep at night due to her nightmares. It seemed that just when they’d finally stopped—when she’d finally started feeling—better, feeling—not like herself, not her old self, no, she would never be her old self again, but..... she’d started feeling like a person again. A person, and not a droid, not a machine on autopilot with one function, one goal programmed: defeat the Empire, defeat the Empire, defeat the Empire..... Just when that angry, broken, hollow Leia had left, she found herself caught in the cycle again. Sleepless nights spent shivering, long shifts spent suppressing yawns, irritable, freezing—why did no one else seem to be quite so freezing?
Curled up in a ball and covered in goosebumps, she craned her head to check her chrono. It was almost midnight, and she was running out of sleeping time. Soon enough her alarm would blare and she’d have to emerge from her sleep sack-jacket shelter into the icy pre-dawn of Hoth. She’d have to freeze her naked ass off in the sonic ‘fresher stall, then cross the drafty base to the mess hall for caf, which she’d sip with bleary dismay, resigned to the countless chilly hours stretching before her before she could crawl back onto her cot once more and try again to sleep.
Maybe if she put her snowsuit on over her night clothes... Was the space heater faulty? Surely no one else was suffering so on a nightly basis—it was torture, this cold, but damned if she would complain.
The chrono read 0017, and her nightly battle with herself began.
She could go to the Falcon. Oh, how wonderful it would be... the old freighter was warm, so warm. She could make herself a hot cup of tea in the warm galley, make use of the warm ‘fresher, climb into the warm crew bunk with no need for three pairs of socks or her heavy duty coat, and sleep.....
Except she couldn’t go to the Falcon, not for a hundred reasons. The first being that it wasn’t fair, was it? The rest of the rebels had no place to seek refuge if their beds were cold at night, and who was she to vote in favor of their relocation to Hoth, subject everyone to this icy hell, and then sneak off to sleep cozy and toasty on the Millennium Falcon while everyone else huddled against their crappy heaters? No, she would share the same fate as all other enlisted personnel, and shiver right along with them.
Oh, but she could take that thick, plush blanket from the main hold, abscond with it to the crew quarters, and fall asleep wrapped up in it, bundled up, breathing in its wonderful smell—
Like Han. It smells like Han. You want to fall asleep smelling Han? You want to fall asleep thinking about Han? Perhaps you don’t want to fall asleep in the crew quarters at all, but perhaps his cabin, perhaps his bunk—perhaps not wrapped in his blanket but wrapped in is arms, is that what you want? His heat, his smell, his touch—?
Leia squeezed her eyes closed and shook her head, desperate to silence the voice inside it, desperate to drive away the images it had evoked.
This was her problem. This was the worst part of Hoth. For every moment she spent hating the cold she spent twice as many longing for Han Solo, and like an untreated wound the wanting seemed only to grow worse and worse, festering, spreading, infecting. For months Leia had had countless reasons why she couldn’t pursue him: From a practical standpoint, she needed to devote all her time to the rebellion and could afford no distractions. From a moral standpoint, it was disrespectful and tasteless to get caught up in something so trivial and juvenile as a crush after what had happened to Alderaan, and from a personal standpoint, could she even have a romantic relationship despite all her baggage? Her grief, her guilt, her crippling fear of more loss, her fear of vulnerability, her trauma, her triggers? Selfish to impose that on anyone else—and Han wouldn’t want to go to bed with her anyway if he knew it meant going to bed with billions of dead Alderaanians. How could she be thinking of that, anyway, after what had happened? Shouldn’t she be consumed still by her need for revenge? Her despair? And Han was leaving, he wasn’t committed to her, he would hurt her, he—
He was still here. Two years later, here. Making her smile. Having her back. Treating her like a person, pushing her buttons, making her feel, making her heal, making her forget the insidious cold and—
And couldn’t she just go to the damn Millennium Falcon for the night?
Leia rolled flat onto her back, glaring at the dark ceiling. Her resolve was crumbling and she knew it. And not just with regard to his ship. Just as each night her she was more tempted to go sleep on the Falcon, so too was she more tempted to screw her list of reasons and give over to her feelings for Han.
She closed her eyes, imagining it. What would it be like? If she told him how she felt about him—confessed that she had feelings for him, wanted him... Would he answer in kind? Or would he let his actions speak for him? In her mind’s eye Leia pictured it, how his surprise would give way to relief, happiness, and then intention. Would his gaze sharpen, soften? Would he lift his big hands to cup her face, draw her to him, kiss her? Leia tried to imagine what it would be like, kissing him. He was so tall—his stature so strong, body capable and masculine—would he hoist her up closer, to claim her mouth with his? Would he kiss her softly, at first? Or deeply, aggressively, with all the pent-up desire they’d both been harboring for so, so long? She was sure, wasn’t she, that he’d been desiring her, too...
In her cold quarters Leia felt her face was hot, and that there was heat in her stomach and...
She swallowed. There was another way she could warm up and find some sleep tonight...
Leia felt suddenly, foolishly, wary. It wasn’t that she’d never touched herself before but she’d never done so with premeditated intentions beforehand to think of Han, had never been driven to it from thinking about him to begin with, and was it wrong? Dangerous? It seemed dangerous, to wade so deeply into the depths of her own desire...
Biting her lip, her heart pounding, she slid her hand down her body. Her fingers were cold at first, but it was like she was barely paying attention to her own touch. Instead, she was suddenly, desperately imagining how his lips would feel against her throat. How often had she looked at those lips, how they slanted with his smirk, lopsided when he grinned... The thought of them moving over her skin dissolved any inhibition she left; she could think of nothing but Han.
How would... how would it feel, if it were his fingers, not hers, gliding between her legs? Her entire body seemed to come online at the thought of him touching her there, like Han was some ON-switch she’d never before discovered. Breathless all of a sudden, Leia imagined herself in his bunk, how good he would smell—his skin—the sound of his voice—kissing him...
As Leia’s fingers continued to move over herself, she opened her eyes.
She saw him there, beside her, above her, watching. In the low light his eyes moved over her with such heat that Leia felt herself lit on fire. Naked before his gaze, touching herself while he watched, she was neither shy nor inhibited.
“Kriff,” he hissed, face awed, eyes darting to watch her hand before settling back on her face. “Kriff, Leia. Fuck.”
He lifted a hand to grasp her hip—it slid up her body, over her ribs, and Leia felt dizzy. His hand moved between her breasts, cupping one and then the other, his gaze rapt and intense. Leia was in some kind of trance, unable to do anything but continue, unable to feel anything but pleasure, unable to question what was happening.
With her free hand she drew him down to her and moaned into his kiss, exulting to finally know his mouth, to feel his tongue against hers.
“Leia,” Han moaned, voice low, needing. She felt that it both reflected and amplified her own desire and lust, and in response she could only whisper his name in return, no control over herself, drifting and swept along. Leia felt like a spectator rather than a participant as Han’s mouth found her neck, as she felt herself tilting her head for him, arching and biting her lip.
Like she was trapped in her body, observing with shivering wonderment what was happening to herself.
“Sweetheart,” he groaned between sucking kisses against her pulse point. “You’re killing me—Leia, hell, you’re killing me—“
Han’s kisses brushed along her collarbones and chest. She felt a huff of breath against her skin—wet from his mouth—as he drew back to look down at her, the sound of it like disbelief, like he couldn’t believe her or couldn’t believe how badly he wanted her, Leia didn’t know, but Han bent again, his sucking kiss at her breast now, and Leia arched in shocked response, the hot wet pull at her swollen flesh almost too much to bear.
She heard her own voice—she thought it was her voice, she had never heard herself sound like this before.
“Han!” she gasped, whimpering. “Mm, oh, Han—“
The movement of her hand between her thighs was futile, her fingers powerless against the rising want—not enough, not enough, not—
Han breathed Leia against her skin and reached for her hand, trailing his own down her arm to her wrist and lifting it urgently to his mouth. He pressed a kiss against her palm, his eyes dark gold, before hastily replacing her fingers with his.
Leia was almost stunned to hear the sound she made, shocked that he was touching her so intimately, shocked that she was allowing it—his fingers moving over her slick flesh so different from her own, enflaming, incredible. She found herself reaching for him, touching him everywhere she could reach, her hands moving seemingly of their own accord. Leia gripped his soft hair, clutched him against herself, ran her palms and fingertips over the smooth flesh she’d never before seen—his arms and shoulders and back so strong, so hot, so hard. Leia was lost in her haze of bliss, the scene otherworldly, incendiary.
Han pressed one finger inside her and she felt her mouth open in a soundless cry.
“Like this?” he asked gruffly against her lips, kissing her once more. “This what you imagined, Sweetheart?”
Leia felt herself nodding against him, felt herself spreading her legs wider, felt herself moving to meet his stroke between her legs. She heard herself continuing to moan against his mouth.
“Yes,” she whimpered. “Oh. Han. Yes.”
Han’s face looked almost pained, his expression so affected it was almost tortured.
“Hell,” he groaned. “Leia.”
Leia bit her lip and arched her back as Han crooked his finger inside her, her legs shaking.
“Can’t believe you—on that ice ball, I—Leia, d’you got any idea how bad I wanted you? Hell—“
These words he whispered by her ear and Leia ran her hands over the planes of his broad back again and again, nodding, stroking his hair, promising Yes, saying I know, yes, I— over and over. Trying to tell him, to show him, how she’d shared that burden of want, how she’d been as powerless as he against the force that had been drawing them together all that time....
Han eased a second finger in alongside the first and Leia felt her fingers in his hair clench and pull.
He seemed to hiss his agreement.
“Tell me what else you thought about.”
Demand or plea, Leia didn’t know or care, she couldn’t, she was held captive by this spell, by the unfamiliar thrill of his fingers moving inside her body, by the glory of his bare form pressed against her.
Before she could answer Han drew away once more, moving away from her. Leia watched with surreal anticipation as he laid down a few more kisses—on her nipples, above her naval, his tongue sweeping over the shape of one hipbone—
She should have been shocked as he lifted her thighs against his shoulders, as he withdrew his fingers from within her to grasp her hips with both hands. He met her eyes with a gaze so hot and hungry and reverent that she quaked.
“Did you think about this?” he asked fervently. For one second it seemed to Leia that he tried to grin, but his voice sounded shaky when he asked her, and any effort he made to smirk was soon forgotten in the face of his desire.
Leia heard herself answer.
“Did you?” she asked, holding his gaze. Seeing him look up at her from between her legs. “Did you imagine this?”
Han’s grip about her tightened.
“Yes,” he confessed. He suddenly laughed against the crux of her body. “Kriff, don’t think there’s anything I didn’t imagine—“
His voice trailed off, saturated with lust, and then Leia clutched at his hair as he resumed those hot kisses once more. Again she heard herself encouraging and entreating him, trembling to feel him loving her with his mouth and tongue.
Han swore softly—she could just barely hear him—and let go of one hip to touch her again as he had before—
“Oh, stop!” Leia gasped, overwhelmed. “Han—please. I want you—“
He lifted his head again to look at her, stopping at once.
“Wanna make you come like this,” he groaned, turning to press a kiss to her inner thigh. “Want—“
But Leia was shaking her head, squeezing his hand.
“Get up here,” she begged. “Please. I need—oh—Han—“
Han spent one more moment teasing her with his tender ministrations before rising up onto his hands and knees.
It occurred to Leia that the sight of him was more magnificent than anything she could have imagined. His bare body above her, moving over her—lean, muscular, golden... Hazily she attempted to memorize every detail: how his flat abdomen flexed, how his broad chest narrowed to his lean waist and hips, the sight of his strong thighs, his—
Han seemed intent on kissing as many parts of her as he could reach on his way to her mouth. She watched, stricken and panting, as he kissed her belly, between her breasts, the bends of her inner elbows. He pressed three soft kisses over an angry scar on her upper arm that Leia had never seen before.
Against her shoulder he whispered a series of Sweethearts that moved Leia almost to tears.
She found herself parting her legs once more and urging him to settle between them. Han cupped her face between his hands, kissing her gently, and Leia sighed, drunk, exhilarated. Oh, how she had wanted this. She wanted this, she wanted, she—
She heard herself say “I imagined this too,” with an intimate sigh. What was she trying to do? Tease him? Please him? Or simply share the vulnerable truth?
Han rested his forehead against hers.
She thought he would say “me too.”
Instead he said “I love you.”
Impossibly, Leia closed her eyes against his neck, murmuring “I know, I know,” and waiting for him to finally shift to press inside her, needing to feel him there, knowing that only he could have made her feel this way, would ever make her feel this way, in both her body and her heart, she needed to feel them joined together, to answer the ache there, oh, she loved him, she—
Leia opened her eyes, startled, sweating, and confused. Somewhere nearby there was an alarm going off.
She sat bolt upright, fumbling for her chrono. 0515. She was on Hoth, she was in her quarters, fully dressed, she—
Trembling, Leia looked down at her cot. It had seemed so real—in Han’s bunk, the two of them, it had been so vivid. Her body still thrummed with the pleasure, still felt the phantom heat of his body, she...
She was so, so screwed. Leia groaned, shaking her head, pressing her fingertips against her temples.
A sex dream. A sex dream? Oh, and he would be at the briefing this morning! With disgust, Leia kicked away her sleeping bag and stood to shuffle towards the ‘fresher. She’d really made a mess of things this time. Just how exactly would she manage to look him in the eye after having touched herself while fantasizing about him? After having drifted into the most carnal, the most erotic dream—
Leia stripped out of her sweaty thermals and cycled on the sonic ‘fresher, for once not freezing in the early morning but flushed, hot.
Never again, Leia scolded herself. I am never doing that again, I can never let it happen again. Last night was a momentary lapse in sanity that will not be repeated if for no other reason than to keep from going insane—
The sonics deactivated and Leia stepped out of the stall. Now that her heart rate was calming, she was beginning to feel cold again.
So much for nothing, Leia thought irritably, running her hands over her arms in an attempt to stimulate some heat with the friction.
Then Leia frowned, and looked down at her arm. With one fingertip she traced a line where in her dream that scar had been, the one that Dream Han had kissed so carefully...
Leia shook herself and began to dress. Dreams rarely made sense, after all. It was time to face reality. And the reality was that she needed to stop thinking about going to bed with Han and start thinking about her duties.
As she left her quarters for the morning and tread her daily path to the mess hall, Leia actively decided not to reflect upon the most alluring part of the entire dream:
I am not in love with Han, she told herself fiercely as she made her way through the icy passages. She repeated it over and over again like a kind of desperate mantra, but as she got to the mess hall and saw him sitting at their usual table, she deflated. She couldn’t even succeed in convincing herself.